


Eat Me

by GutterBall



Series: Bloody Wankers [2]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Chuck is a goddamn softie, Cussing, Fluff, M/M, Prequel, Raleigh is a snarky jerk until he isn't, Vampire AU, vampire!Chuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 17:43:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14815895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GutterBall/pseuds/GutterBall
Summary: Chuck didn't ask to be turned into a vampire, but he isn't exactly mad about it, either. Herc keeps him well-fed, and his improved strength, reflexes, and speed are definitely bonuses in his line of work.Unfortunately, the Double Event forced Chuck to make a decision he'd intended to put off for years, if not forever, when Herc's arm is broken. They might have to drop for Pitfall at any moment, and whilst the marshal offered to pilot with Chuck, there's a simpler solution: turn Herc so he'll be healed and fit for battle.The only problem: there goes his convenient, voluntary food source.Enter one ambrosia-smelling Raleigh Becket.





	Eat Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [estei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/estei/gifts), [trinipedia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trinipedia/gifts).



**_Australia - February 2024_ **

_The pub door explodes open, two civilians stumbling back out of it and collapsing to the pavement. Chuck Hansen follows after, still trading punches and gouges with the other two asshole civilians. At this point, it doesn't even matter who started the fight._

_Chuck means to finish it._

_The brawl carries on down the walk and into the alley, and Chuck knows Herc will have words for him when he gets back sporting bruises and a split lip, but he doesn't much care at the moment. Everyone had to get out of the shatterdome now and again, but after a drop where they didn't even get to fight... where they'd just been back-up--_

_A harder than usual punch to the torso gets his attention, if for no other reason than that his legs suddenly feel weak, and when he goes to throw a counter, he can't seem to get any speed in the motion. Frowning as time slows down to a point, he stumbles back a step and looks down._

_There's a knife hilt sticking out of his side, just under the ribs. How'd that get there?_

_Blinking like someone waking from a week-long sleep, he looks at his attackers, who are as pale as he's starting to feel._

_"Oi, what the fuck?"_

_Cursing, they both turn and run for the mouth of the alley, and he suddenly realizes that he's got a spot of bother here. He's a jaeger pilot. He's perhaps the best jaeger pilot left in the world -- besides his old man, and what exactly will Herc make of this fuckarow? -- and he has a knife sticking out of his side, enough blood already soaking into his shirt and trousers to worry him and leave him feeling slow and stupid, and maybe this is a bit more than just a spot of bother. If he can't pilot, Striker Eureka is little more than an eighteen hundred ton paperweight._

_Light-headedness assails him, and he grudgingly acknowledges that if he doesn't get his shit together, he might well bleed to death in this shitty, filthy alley, the victim of a stupid brawl over footie instead of a glorious battle for the fate of humankind. What the fuck had he been thinking? He has responsibilities, goddammit._

_He'd just wanted out of the Shack. And now he's fucked. And if he can't pilot, the whole world may well be fucked, what with jaegers dropping like flies._

_Focusing all his will on staying on his feet when he desperately wants to just sit down for a moment and gather his thoughts, he stumbles a few steps toward the opening of the alleyway and the light there. Pauses to lean a hand against the grimy bricks. Ends up leaning against it with his whole uninjured side, knees watery and weak._

_"You seem to be in quite a state, lad."_

_The voice is low and smooth. Pleasant, even. Unfortunately, something about it draws an icy cold finger down Chuck's spine, and he can't push away from the wall enough to turn and face this new potential threat._

_"Spilled a bit of claret, eh?"_

_More and more with each passing second, in fact. It isn't a mortal wound, per se, but Chuck can't seem to apply any pressure to stop the bleeding. It doesn't even hurt, really. Just... feels like a hard, deep punch._

_That's a bad, bad sign._

_"Reckon I can sort you out right and proper, then."_

_Hands on him, and he's gently -- but with such a strong, uncompromising grip -- pulled away from the wall just enough to lean his back against it, and the strange bloke leans into his space in the near-dark. Nice-looking. Big, dark eyes that almost seem to glow. Pale features._

_Something is... wrong, though._

My, what big teeth you have, grandma.

_Shaking his head hard enough to dizzy himself, he blinks rapidly and tries to focus. This shady bloke does indeed have big teeth, the canines long and sharp, and what the fresh hell is this?_

_"That's right, pretty. Let me help-- holy shit."_

_Well. That's a different tone._

_The bloke pulls back, dark eyes wide and incredulous._

_"Jesus Christ, mate! You're Chuck Hansen!"_

_Is... is this toothy motherfucker a goddamn_ fan?

_"What in the kangaroo-stomping shit is this?"_

_Those hard, too-strong hands hold him up when his knees want to buckle, and he tries to speak. He really does._

_"Fucking hell, Ranger Hansen, you've lost way too much blood to get you to the Shack. Where's your mobile? I can call an ambulance--"_

_"Didn't bring it."_

_"Goddamn it." Groaning, the bloke lets his head fall back for a moment. "What to do, what to do?"_

_Too woozy to speak clearly, Chuck does his best just to lean back against the wall, to regain any kind of strength. He's not sure why, but he feels more in danger right now than at any point in his life. This bloke may be pretty, and he seems genuinely worried about him now that he's recognized him, but something dark radiates from him. Something... hungry._

_Such large, sharp teeth._

_If he weren't so goddamn lightheaded, he could sort this shit out. It would all make sense._

_"Swore I'd never do this, mate, but... you're Chuck Hansen." Leaning close suddenly, the bloke meets his eyes. Those eyes aren't dark anymore but seem to be dancing with kaleidoscope lights of every color. "The world needs you alive."_

_Closer still, and the handsome head tilts, uncomfortably like a predator's just before a kill. Full lips pull back from those too-sharp teeth, and Chuck is again reminded of Little Red Riding Hood._

_And why not? He's a ginger. Just call him Red. And he's about to be eaten by a wolf._

_"Well... alive enough."_

_The predator strikes._

\--

**_Hong Kong - January 2025_ **

Something smelled fucking delicious.

The Double Event was two days in the past, and Chuck hadn't eaten since the morning before that. He could go several days between feedings if necessary, but he'd grown used to his old man feeding him a bit each day, just to make sure the hunger didn't take over. It hadn't yet, but... well... neither of them saw any reason to push their luck.

Chuck had spent his entire life trying to save innocent lives. He refused to be responsible for ending any.

Unfortunately, the Double Event had resulted in Herc breaking his goddamn arm, and with their last chance mission looming any day now, Chuck hadn't seen any option but to turn his old man as Chuck had been turned. Herc hadn't wanted it, worrying who Chuck would feed on if Herc was a vampire, too, but... eventually, he agreed.

They were out of options. It was the end of the world, either way.

And Chuck didn't regret turning the old bastard, even if it meant an eternity of spats and emotional constipation. Sure, he and his old man had their demons between them, but Herc wasn't getting any younger and had taken one hell of a bashing over the years. And Chuck didn't relish the idea of suiting up with Pentecost, though the marshal had graciously offered. It would've been suicide for the tough old bird, but Chuck didn't doubt Pentecost would have done the job before dropping dead in the harness.

And, frankly, Chuck wasn't all that interested in finding out if being a vampire and nigh immortal meant he could pilot solo. No ranger truly wanted that particular accolade, even if only two people had ever managed it before.

So no. Better all around to turn his old man. Better Herc should be as hard to kill as Chuck had become. Better to not have to worry about goodbyes just yet.

Even if it left Chuck without a convenient, voluntary blood supply.

But seriously. What was that fucking glorious scent?

Following his nose, which was a good bit more sensitive than it used to be, Chuck tracked the mouth-watering aroma down the hall, around a corner, and into the kwoon.

Where Raleigh Fucking Becket was shadow-boxing alone, barefoot, his singlet clinging to his sweat-streaked musculature.

Jesus bleeding Christ, the bloke smelled good. Insanely good. Forget-your-morals-and-sink-in-your-teeth good. Maybe-a-bit-of-a-struggle-for-it-would-be-nice good.

Fuck-him-whilst-you-drink-him-dry good.

Yes, Chuck could still fuck, so long as he'd fed enough recently to get an erection. In fact, it was probably a good thing he hadn't eaten in almost three days, or he'd have likely been humping the sweaty, amazing-smelling bloke's leg by now.

He had to get his shit together. He'd never truly had to fight the hunger before, but he'd goddamn well better do so now. The world couldn't spare Raleigh Becket any more than it could spare Herc Hansen. He didn't dare put the bloke out of commission.

Otherwise, he wouldn't have held back so hard during their bit of ruckus outside Pentecost's office. He'd positively ached to put a real hurt on the bloke, but goddamn if he could bring himself to disable one of their only pilots, grounded or no.

Thankfully, things had changed a bit since then. Becket and Mori had saved Herc's ass, maybe even saved Chuck's, and the pair had performed beautifully whilst taking down two Category IVs.

Not such a has-been or a rookie, after all. Chuck freely admitted that.

Like he freely admitted that he wanted a taste of Raleigh Becket and right fucking now.

Swallowing hard, he got a rein on himself and rolled his shoulders as if preparing for a fight. He'd never taken anyone's blood without permission before -- had never taken anyone's but Herc's, in fact -- and he didn't intend to start now, no matter how good the bloke smelled.

"Oi, Raleigh?"

See? Even said the name right. He could be as polite as anyone.

The pretty sod -- and yes, Chuck had admitted from the start that, even ragged and in desperate need of a shower and a shave, the bloke was downright _pretty_ \-- turned toward him and frowned, not dropping his guard.

Nervous now, because how the fuck did one go about asking for a few swallows of blood, he shuffled his feet and abruptly shoved his hands in his pockets. "I... uh... never did thank you properly for coming after us like you did."

One eyebrow rose. "I didn't expect you to."

His eyes narrowed. "Oi, you saying I'm ungrateful?"

No, dammit. Pissing the wanker off was definitely not helping.

Thankfully, the rotten sod just rolled his eyes. "You're welcome."

Becket turned away to go back to his routine, and Chuck floundered, trying to think of something, _anything,_ to say to keep even the tenuous conversation going until he got up his nerve. He had to do something. His stomach didn't growl anymore, but his whole body felt as if it were pulling loose inside, the hunger sucking into itself. It didn't hurt, exactly, but it fucking well wasn't comfortable.

"Look, mate, I... uh...."

Jesus Christ. The fuck was wrong with him?

Becket shot him another raised eyebrow look, this time back over his shoulder. Broad shoulder, that. Good, strong lines of muscle.

His mouth cramped with the need to bite.

"You got a moment?"

He wanted to close his eyes and sink through the floor.

Worse, the bloke narrowed his eyes again. "No."

And there went his mouth again, flinging shit like a goddamn monkey in a zoo. "Fuck you, Ray. I'm asking nice and everything."

"Doesn't mean I have to say yes."

"Jesus Christ, why does everything with you have to be so bloody difficult?"

Blue eyes widened, and the bloke huffed incredulously. "With me??"

But Chuck's mouth had already taken over, and that had rarely ever boded well.

"Yes, you. I just wanted to ask you a simple fucking favor, but you won't even fucking listen. So fuck you, Ray. You are being fucking difficult."

Shaking his head, his eyes still wide, Becket huffed again. "You arrogant, shit-talking, pontificating piece of--"

"Oi!"

They were practically nose to nose, and Chuck was miserably aware that they were one wrong word away from another fight.

And Becket smelled fucking _divine._

The hunger twisted in him, but he doubted Becket would give him so much as a lick of sweat now. Jesus, he'd fucked this up.

Why the fuck had he turned Herc?

Then, just as his nerves -- and the hunger -- strained to the breaking point, which could only go badly for the both of them, Becket closed his eyes and shook his head.

"What."

He blinked, still scowling but trying not to. "What do you mean, what?"

"You said you needed a favor. What."

This wasn't going to work. If Becket didn't smell so goddamn beautiful....

"Fuck you. Never mind."

Instead of decking him, Becket rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. Biceps bulged. Sweat sheened in the light from overhead.

Chuck hungered.

"Jesus Christ, Chuck, just ask whatever the fuck you want so I can go get something to eat."

Again, his mouth took the reins.

"That's what I want."

The bloke blinked, his forehead wrinkling. "What?"

He cleared his throat, trying to back off and calm down. Maybe he could still salvage this fuckarow.

"To eat."

Still lost, Becket tilted his head. "So... eat?"

_If fucking only, mate._

Still tense, he rubbed at the back of his neck, wishing he had anything like social skills to get him out of the stupid fucking muck he'd made of this entire scene.

"What if...." _Just fucking say it._ "What if what I want to eat... is you?"

Blue eyes widened, and Becket took a step back.

Chuck's own eyes widened, and he put up his hands, hoping like fuck that he looked innocent. "Not like _eat you_ eat you. Just...." He was in it now. Fuck. "Just... a bit of blood."

The pretty sod eyed him like he'd lost his mind, and Chuck didn't blame him at all. Hell, maybe he _was_ mental. He just... the hunger was turning him inside out, worse with every inhale of that goddamn ambrosial scent of sweat and man and hot, sweet blood just underneath satiny skin.

Becket backed another wary step. "Chuck, what exactly are you talking about?

For the first time, Chuck wished he'd told more than just his old man and Pentecost about his little malady. How the fuck could he tell the bloke -- who wasn't a goddamn idiot, for all that he was a wanker -- that he was a vampire? Who in their right mind would believe it?

Sighing, he did the only thing he could. He bared his fangs.

As expected, the bloke startled and backed several more steps, hands coming up either to defend himself or to hold Chuck back. Chuck wasn't surprised by the reaction or the surprise inherent in it. It hadn't taken long at all to adjust the way he held his mouth to hide those fangs whilst he spoke. In fact, it had almost come naturally.

It wasn't as if he smiled very often. Especially not wide enough to actually show his teeth.

Sighing, he closed his mouth. Likely as not, he'd already said far too much.

After a long, awkward, silent moment, Becket took a deep breath.

"...How...?"

He shook his head. "Too long a story for right now, mate."

Thankfully, the bloke didn't protest the dodge. "Then... how long...?"

"Just shy of a year."

Those pretty blues widened. "A year? Jesus Christ, Chuck, what the hell have you been eating all this time?"

A shaft of defensive irritation speared through him, and he drew himself up and scowled. "Fuck you, Becket. I'm not a fucking monster. Dad's been feeding me, and it's worked out pretty goddamn well thus far."

The wanker started to snark back, then paused, mouth opening for a soft, "Oh." Chuck could practically see the pieces connecting.

Herc's broken arm that suddenly wasn't broken anymore. The fact that his old man looked better than he had since Manila. Hell, since before the war started.

That Herc's broken arm had unbroken itself almost three days before.

Because Chuck had turned him.

And now had nothing to eat.

Those baby blues widened, and the defensive hands came right back up. "Now hold on just a minute--"

Chuck threw up his own hands, even backing a step. "I'm not taking a goddamn thing without permission, mate. You tell me to fuck off, and I'm gone."

The hunger felt like a miniature black hole in his chest, sucking all his internal works toward it, pulling and searing through him hard enough that he winced.

And Becket saw it.

"But... you'll still need to feed."

He tried for a grin, but it felt like another wince. "Dad used to feed me a bit each day so the hunger didn't get a toe-hold."

Again, he watched the bloke do the math. Becket wasn't a fool.

He also wasn't a _complete_ wanker.

Gritting his teeth, the bloke lowered his hands, though they fisted at his sides. "Does it hurt?"

He blinked, unsure how to answer. Herc had never complained, but Chuck knew the old man felt a hefty dose of duty and a massive load of guilt toward him and, thus, wouldn't so much as flinch.

"I mean, how out of it will I be? We could drop any day, and...?"

Jesus. Jesus Christ, was Becket actually considering...?

He swallowed hard, trying not to look as hungry as he felt. "Wouldn't normally take too much. Maybe a bit swimmy in the head for a bit, but Dad was never too out of it right after."

Studying his every move, the pretty sod tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. "But now...?"

Another attempt at a grin that did him no credit at all. "Might need a bit more. Just this once."

But the bloke only narrowed his eyes further. "And what happens after this once?"

He blinked. "I don't...?"

Rolling his eyes again, the rotten sod sighed. "Chuck, you said Herc used to feed you every day. You're obviously gonna need to feed more than just this once. So... if I let you... feed... now, what will you do tomorrow? And the next day? And the next?"

No, Raleigh Becket wasn't an idiot. Not at all.

Sighing, he shrugged. "Let me worry about that."

Huffing an irritated grunt, the wanker let his head fall back and stared up at the ceiling. His shoulders slumped, his hands relaxing from their fists.

And still, the hunger pulled at him, urging him to strike at that bared throat, to taste the drying sweat, to drag the pretty bloke to the floor and drink until Becket stopped struggling.

"Jesus, kid."

Gritting his teeth, he tore his focus back to the subject at hand.

"Just... look, you can feed from me until Pitfall, okay? As long as you don't incapacitate me. We'll worry about what to do after that... after that."

He clearly couldn't have heard correctly. Because it sounded like Becket just offered to feed him every day until the mission, and... no. He definitely hadn't heard correctly.

But the bloke just stood there, head back -- though he tilted it to the side now, the tendon stretching beautifully, the pulse throbbing just below that mouth-watering stretch of skin -- and waiting.

And Chuck was so fucking hungry.

His feet ate the distance between them without asking his mind for permission, but he did manage to stop himself from reaching out and grabbing the poor bastard. A good thing, too. Becket had tensed at his sudden move, and Chuck was abruptly reminded that he wasn't exactly human, and he could hurt the bloke without ever meaning to. He was fast and strong, but even with the hunger sucking at him, he couldn't let this get out of hand.

Not with the bloke half-ass trusting him right now.

Eyes closed tight. Body thrumming with nervous tension. Fists clenched all over again. Head cocked painfully to one side. Heart racing.

Blood pounding.

Though he wanted to growl and sink in his teeth, he forced himself to speak instead. His voice was as rough as gravel, but he made himself say actual words.

"Just until Pitfall."

A short, sharp nod.

Trembling with the effort of holding himself in check, he leaned closer, the glorious scent of sweat-kissed skin and warm male and sweet blood engulfing him.

_Raleigh._

His fangs ached, but he only lightly touched his mouth to that temptingly bared flesh, lips slightly parted. Becket tensed further, the tendon under that fine skin jumping against Chuck's mouth.

His tongue darted out, and the taste... Jesus. The hunger swelled even as it pulled everything exquisitely tight inside him, and his arms wrapped around the rock-hard body thrumming like a live wire against him. The poor bloke didn't pull away, as he so obviously wanted to.

Another swipe of his tongue, and he couldn't wait any longer. Raleigh Becket tasted like a goddamn banquet, and the hunger was tired of waiting.

His fangs sank through the satin skin like a warm knife through butter, and Becket uttered a soft, surprised noise that seemed to thrum in his throat. Hot, thick blood filled Chuck's mouth, and he swallowed that first draught as desperately as a dehydrated fool at a desert oasis. It slid down his throat like honey and spread through his stomach like expensive whiskey, and he groaned, low and long, and tightened his grip.

Becket sagged against him.

Another draw, another mouthful of glorious, rich warmth, and his body heated and seemed to expand, the hunger loosing its clenched fist inside his chest. He firmed his grip, Becket's slumping bulk as light as a child in his arms, and drew another mouthful of blood, too hungry to savor its taste before swallowing it down and feeling it spread all through him, warmth and life and strength.

_Raleigh._

Another draught, and off in a far, wee corner of his mind, a dim alarm bell started to ring. He'd promised not to take too much, though he knew he'd take more than usual after such a long time between feedings.

_Don't hurt him._

But the hunger wasn't quite sated yet, and the bloke felt so goddamn good in his arms, and the tang of that glorious sweat flavored each swallow of life's blood, and fuck if he could stop just yet.

Another draught and... wait.

Something tasted--

Frowning, he wrestled himself back under control and tried to focus. Raleigh's blood was thick and potent, yes, especially given his hunger, but, though the bloke's skin tasted like a goddamn wet dream, his blood... tasted... off.

Wrong.

Bland?

This draw was more of a sip, and he quickly swiped his tongue over the tidy little holes he'd made in the bloke's neck to heal them so he could pull away and wrinkle his nose. Becket lolled like a ragdoll in his arms, pale and listless and alarmingly washed out, and Chuck finally understood.

Of fucking course.

The bloke tasted bland because he was fucking malnourished. The poor bastard had likely been eating nothing but rations for five fucking years, and only those when he could get them. Rations were a bit like drinking a protein shake -- enough to keep a human being alive and shut the stomach up for a few hours, but not enough vitamins and minerals to actually _sustain_ one.

Raleigh Fucking Becket was malnourished as fuck, and a few days of real food hadn't come anywhere near to making up the lack of proper nourishment, and Chuck had just taken far too much of his already-taxed reserves.

Just fucking great. Right when the bloke had agreed to feed him until Pitfall, too.

Sighing heavily, he looked at the nigh-unconscious bloke in his arms and considered. Unfortunately, he'd left a few smears on the poor sod's neck, though the wounds had already healed, and once he looked, he couldn't look away. He could just wipe them off with his fingers, of course, but....

Fuck. Becket still smelled like heaven, and for all that his blood was bland as fuck, his skin tasted divine. So, despite the fact that he should tell the bloke that he appreciated the offer but he'd find someone else to feed him, he leaned down and slowly licked away the blood smears instead. Lingered. Breathed in that intoxicating scent.

Gave into the inevitable.

Raleigh moaned softly in his throat, the sound vibrating against Chuck's lips, and he shivered. He didn't want to feed on anyone else.

In fact, if he had his way, he'd never feed on anyone else again.

But not at the cost of Raleigh's health.

So, sighing, he shifted his grip until he could scoop the half-conscious bloke up in a princess carry and headed for the silly sod's bunk.

"Fucking rations, mate. Shoulda said something."

Raleigh muttered softly, turning his face against Chuck's shoulder. It was stupidly adorable.

"Yeah, whatever. You're feeding me, so I'll by God take care of you. Reckon the med labs have supplements that'll sort you out, and I'll fix your goddamn tray at every meal if I have to."

Mutter mutter... nuzzle?

Sure enough, the silly sausage was nuzzling up under Chuck's chin, though his eyebrows had drawn together in a scowl. Jesus. This fucking bloke.

"I don't wanna hear it, mate. You taste like a baked potato with no salt or butter, and I won't have it. Understood?"

He shifted his grip to yank the wanker's door open, then slowly, gently laid the pretty sod on the bed. Too much of him was tempted to strip the bloke and take him to the shower, but he fully admitted that was a selfish wish. In fact, if he was honest, he more wanted to lie down next to that lovely body and lick every hint of sweat from the satin skin, no matter how long it took. To roll half on top of the bloke, bury his face in his neck, and breathe him in for hours on end.

To fuck him right through the mattress, then maybe bite him again to see if orgasm made his blood taste better.

Fuck.

He didn't have a right to any of that. Nor did he have anything like permission. Becket had agreed to feed him, and the poor sod wasn't in any fit state to agree to anything more at the moment.

And Chuck had never taken anything that wasn't on offer.

So, reining himself in again, he restrained himself to rolling the nigh-boneless bloke under the covers and running a hand through the silky blond hair. He trailed his fingers down the throat he'd drank from, then backed away entirely.

Water. Raleigh would need water when he awoke. Chuck hadn't taken a truly dangerous amount of blood, even from a malnourished victim, but even Herc had always downed a bottle of water after Chuck fed, and he reckoned it wouldn't hurt to start the bloke on the habit, just in case.

Thankfully, the silly sod did have bottles of water in his mini fridge, so Chuck put one on the edge of the desk right by the bloke's head. He could hardly miss it when he sat up.

Then, he looked down at the bloke and grinned softly. "Get some sleep, mate. I'll sort everything out and come get you in time for the late meal, yeah?"

Unable to resist one last temptation, he bent down and pressed the lightest, most gentle kiss he'd ever given on the bloke's temple. Becket sighed in his sleep.

"I'll take care of you, Raleigh."

It was a barely-audible whisper, and Becket didn't seem to have heard it, but Chuck meant it with every fiber of his being. Somehow, between discovering that the bloke smelled like a five course meal in a sweat and now, he'd become very fond of Raleigh Becket. The world might end in a few days, but until then....

He stood away, then snuck out of the bunk, closing the door as quietly as possible behind him. He had work to do.

Supplements to acquire.

A healthy, nourishing menu to plan and implement.

A pretty, ambrosia-smelling American to coax back to full health until his blood tasted as good as the rest of him.

Suddenly, the decade-long struggle against the kaiju seemed like a back seat sort of bother. He had more important things to do.

So, well-fed and whistling with his hands in his pockets and a spring in his step, Chuck set about his new, self-appointed task with a clear heart.

Everything else could wait.

**THE END**

 


End file.
